


Flush

by therewithasmile



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (If you think about it), (still can't believe that's a tag), Cullenlingus, Cunnilingus, Doggy Style, F/M, Light Dom/sub, POV Female Character, Semi-Public Sex, Wall Sex, there's a bit of squirting in here too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6528661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therewithasmile/pseuds/therewithasmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She wonders if it’s due to his smell, a mix of earthiness and musk and crisp pine; her own hyperawareness, to the point that her fingers tingle in anticipation; or that it’s simply madness, that all of this is simply madness, and as she hits stone, the expanse of his palm nestling the small of her back is like a warm lick of fire, she can’t help but to blame that madness as she tangles a fist helplessly into his hair."</p><p>OR, Cullen takes his love against a wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flush

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece I started writing in January and never finished. So I finished it.

His lips brush over hers, frenetic, brash.  Every breath she manages to feather comes in small, sipping gasps, air barely gliding down her throat before he recaptures her mouth. His scar tickles her upper lip and his teeth grazes her bottom one, but it doesn’t hurt – she only responds by gasping, the small aspiration the only sound against the wall.

Cullen pulls away, his molten gold eyes nearly black. Her legs feel weak, unstable – as fire erupts from her spine, she all but melts into his touch, reduced to nothing but gelatin as his fingers skim along each vertebrae in her back. She could feel each sensation as if she were nude - surely the sheer fabrics she’d chosen to clothe herself in allowed for all this -  yet the sensitivity of which she reacted is certainly not attributed to mere clothing. She wonders if it’s due to his smell, a mix of earthiness and musk and crisp pine; her own hyperawareness, to the point that her fingers tingle in anticipation; or that it’s simply madness, that all of this is simply _madness_ , and as she hits stone cold wall, the expanse of his palm nestling the small of her back is like a warm lick of fire, she can’t help but to blame that madness as she tangles a fist helplessly into his hair.

He presses back into her more urgently, his kisses growing sloppier and sloppier, deviating from her mouth and instead pressing against the skin around it. And then he braces himself against the wall, one leg tangling between hers. Scalding heat shoots to the center of her core, leaving her senseless; her head feels light and her only _feeling_ is his mouth against hers. She only knows she’s arching her back when his hand sneaks from behind her, leaving a blazing trail as it rests by her waist. And then he pulls her back in, and she’s pressed to the wall and yet being hugged at the same time. All she knows is that it feels remarkable, with him so close to her that his chest presses against her breast, his breaths feather light against her mouth, the tips of his fingers running up and down her torso effortlessly as if she were naked in the first place.

Her breath comes in a rugged gasp as his hand hesitates and palms at a breast. Shivers erupt from his touch; she nearly sags weightily into his ready hands, one of her quickly-erecting nipples already trapped in the space between two of his fingers. He tweaks it once – and it’s as if liquid fire dances in her veins. She’s puffing her chest out, desperate for more of his hands, although impossible, as she still feels the searing heat at her waist and the other just over her sensitive skin, and yet she tries and tries again to earn another twist, a pinch, _anything_ , for the hollow space left in the absence of feeling doesn’t satisfy her. He gives a low grumble of approval and tweaks again – and this time she really does let the sensation flow through her. Her head tilts back and she feels the tip of her skull knock against the icy wall, but that awareness melts away as he twists her nipple a third time.

She hisses his name but he’s not paying attention. Instead he occupies himself by leaving peppered kisses down her neck, nipping and biting and _caressing_ and soon she forgets that she’d been craving his touch altogether. But then it comes back in full speed, once his hands leave her body and instead begin to work on the dainty buttons that adorned her clothing. As every bit of fabric gives way, his hand slides up the expanse of her stomach. She shudders at that, and the sudden nip against a spot on her shoulder has her serrate a breath before a single finger skims along the weight of her breast. She squirms, trying to get _more,_ but she only feels an upturn of his lips against her collarbone. Eventually, his fingers begin to brush aside her shirt, down her arms and off her porcelain shoulders. She shudders a gasp when he presses into her urgently, his obvious arousal flush on her legs.

His mouth returns, the scar leaving a rough yet affectionate trail as he kisses down, down – over her fluttering heart, just as it sits on top of the valley of her bra. He pulls back, a cheeky smirk dancing tantalizingly on his cheeks, before he reaches behind, undoing the clasps in one, practiced motion. She flushes as the garment falls to her feet, quick, unbidden – her arms twitch, instinctive to cover herself, but he’s faster, and he all but pins her arms to her sides, his larger grasp easily overpowering hers. He shakes his head once, deliberately; she pouts in response, and he merely chuckles. And then he’s there, his breath warm and wet against her skin, the tips of his teeth grazing a pert nipple. Electricity shoots from the contact. Her fingernails helplessly scrabble against stone walls as her legs turn weak; he catches her carefully, tips of his own fingers against the small of her back as he continues his ministrations.

She moans languidly, the sensation becoming too much to bear. To think she was this fired up, that attention to only her breasts leaves sparks shooting from her spine, vicarious enough to sweep her off her feet. She presses back against him, lifting her chest so that she could have more, ever more, but he pulls away. The same smirk adorns his lips, and she once again sags against the wall.

She wants to disrobe him, to strip him down so that she, too, could run her hands against the planes of his body. Yet he doesn’t relent, his hands still holding hers to her sides, any lapel or ridge of clothing she may hold onto just out of reach. He grins at her frustration, the way her fingers splay against his grip, scrabbling uselessly against the wall, stretching and stretching to only meet stone and not _him_. And then he leans in, placing a kiss _so tender_ against her cheek, her jaw, that she nearly makes a sound of desperation, for she wants to meet him with her own mouth yet his frame disallows that. His mouth leaves blazing trails of affection and worship despite her inability to reciprocate, both dominating yet reverent in a strange paradoxical balance of both, teetering one way then the next but never quite submerging in either.

And then he lets go – like magnets, her hands find him, _finally_ , running up and down his chest, his back – clothing coming apart in flurries, half shredded and half intact, sagging off his arms like ribbons. Yet she doesn’t care, she can’t _touch_ enough. His hair, his muscles, his arms, his chest, his lopsided mouth. The exchange is mirrored, for his hands are free from restricting, and instead dance along her body, gripping her closer, and she him, tighter and tighter and _tighter_ , until she swears she doesn’t remember how to breathe, nor can she, as he’s just as reluctant to ever let her go, like they might disappear forever.

Somehow, between their pressing bodies, his fingers skim along her trousers. He tugs on the drawstrings, each strand loosening one at a time, before she takes the brief seconds it takes to strip herself of the garments. She can feel his hands running up and down her thighs, before he hoists her right leg up against him, calloused fingers holding her there, the sheer mass of his own musculature pressing against her causing her to gasp as she curls her toes. And she tries to do the same, her hands fumbling in incomprehensible flurries around his own pants, but her movements are sloppy and restricted and then her hands are above her, his other hand capturing both of her wrists, and that sly smile tugs at his scar.

She pulls him closer, a ploy of defiance, using her one leg to draw him in. A brief exhale tickles close to her mouth as his forehead presses against hers, his amber-black eyes so close, his lips mere inches away from her. And then it’s her turn, despite her state, to press chaste kisses against him, his scar, his stubble, the curve of his cupid’s bow, in an odd bid of release. Surely, his hands loosen, yet he’s as stubborn as she is; the grip on her thigh tightens and something like a groan escapes between his teeth.

He wrenches his head away, to her chagrin, his eyes like amber fire. One hand chooses a wrist, her left one, before he leads her hand to him and his arousal. She can feel his hardness through his leathers, can nearly grip his protrusion and how sure it is. A breath slithers between clenched teeth; whether it’s hers or his is unknown. His own hand releases hold of hers, tracing underneath her raised thigh before skimming along the edge of her undergarments. He teases the fabric that clothed her sex, the pad of a finger pressing just so slightly within her. She gasps as electricity shoots from the contact, a flood of warmth and arousal lighting her veins. Even though she’s not looking, she can _feel_ him grin, as he presses once, twice more, before his hands slip beyond that silken barrier, hand pressing flush against her sex. She moans, she twists, she _begs_ , the palm drags once, teasingly, borderline _painfully_ , against her core. She can feel her own wetness leave a smear as he brings his hand upward, can barely manage to breathe as the hand begins to _descend._ She only pulls harder at him, tugging around what she knows is the head of his arousal, and it only makes him _growl_ , before a finger plunges into her.

The first few pumps are slow, but it’s enough to have her swallow a hiss of pleasure before he adds another finger. Maker, she’s _sopping_ , and she can barely manage a thought as the fingers _spread._ In and out they slide, spreading apart and closing in an excruciating rhythm. She feels herself sagging against the wall, strength draining out from her toes, as he presses against her, his arousal close to her hips, her own hand still pumping lazily along his length, his hand wreaking havoc to her nethers. Finally, _finally,_ he lets her leg free – only for his hand to recapture her undergarments, sliding them off to provide better access than before. Now free of its duty, he grips her arse, and grips it _hard,_ pressing it against the palm of his right hand, fingers still inside her, pressing deep at her pleasure spots. And then, somehow, she’s flipped, hand hands against the wall yet his fingers still in her, gasping as yet another finger enters, pumping faster and faster. And then she realizes he’s spread her, perhaps with that other hand, and the ministrations become faster – faster, stretching her in _three_ directions – and her breaths seem to hiccup, floating higher and higher – until she comes apart, seeing white, hearing _something_ embarrassing splatter against the floor as she sags heavily into his hand. The fingers slip out, and she hears the buckles of his trousers that she failed to release earlier, before a noisy clattering on the floor.

But the first sensation isn’t his arousal against hers. It’s a small, lithe movement – and she squirms as his tongue presses flat against her clit, teasing, slow, tantalizing. And then it was _everywhere_ , against her, _in her,_ quick and nimble movements as he lapped along the edges of her sex. The wall provides no grip, no balance. She feels her arousal rise in waves as she perches up and down on her toes accordingly, unable to keep her gasping moans as he somehow quickens his pace, letting the tip of his tongue tease each of her pleasure spots for a lingering second after the next. All she can see are stars as her legs positively _tremble._ His name tumbles from her mouth amongst the rest of the madness, a long cry of it, pleasure making each syllable loud and reverberant. And he’s gone, and she sags, frustratingly on the very edge of her release, dangling on the precipice of her orgasm, before she’s filled, in one languid motion, his exhale of satisfaction heavy on her ear.

He sets a maddening pace. Not long, not slow, not worshiping – yet the crazed snapping of his hips, the vulgar sound of their lovemaking, is just that. A hand grips them steady but another is careful that he doesn’t rut her into the wall, and his touch is still careful, still mindful, despite the fact that he’s quickly losing himself behind her. She doesn’t mind, in fact she’s happy to ride out his thrusts, letting her moans go unbidden in the hallway, uncaring of who heard them. He, too, is similar in his disregard, his pants and groans joining hers. She braces her head against the wall as she loses the energy to keep it upright, instead letting him reach as deep as he can within her. Each thrust sends shivers down her spine, and the sensations only triple as his hand leaves her hip and instead finds her breast. His fingers tweak again and she probably howls, she’s not sure because her legs shake and she definitely _swears_ , feeling and _hearing_ liquid splash on the floor, groaning as _he_ groans and she feels his seed reaching deep inside her. He still thrusts weakly, each burst of his orgasm filling her, deeper and deeper, until he helps her up, pressing her against the wall, breathing languidly in her ear. His hips slow before they steady, and it takes a moment for her to recover, all too aware of the moisture that lazes its way down their tangled legs.

Slowly, tantalizingly slowly, he slips from her. She barely manages to steal a peek at his naked form before he pulls his trousers and smalls back over him. Yet she’s reluctant to do the same, content to remain against the wall, utterly spent.

Eventually, she does – pulling her own pants back on and buttoning her blouse. She’s halfway through it when she notices his rueful stare. “Is something wrong?” she murmurs, her voice somewhat hoarse.

He frowns. “My shirt,” is his curt response – and just like that, gone is the passionate and love stricken man who had taken her against a wall, and in its place is the lilt of annoyance that defined the Commander’s voice. They both stared at the shredded garment, half on the floor, half still hanging limply in ribbons off his shoulders.

She chuckles. “Leave it.”

His eyebrows rise. “That’s not very diplomatic, is it, Inquisitor?”

She rolls her eyes at his teasing. “Being diplomatic is not making love in the corridor between the War Room and Josephine’s quarters.”

Just like that, Cullen’s cheek pink and his hand flies to his neck. Somehow, she finds the sight of his nervous tick even more endearing in the absence of a shirt. “Point taken, I suppose,” he sighs.


End file.
